


The Omake Files

by PurpleMoon3



Series: Executioner Dresden [5]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Dubious Drawing Skills, F/M, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, dub-con, shameless porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: A place for ficlets, art, and various other things tangentially related to the Executioner Dresden Universe.





	1. JC III

**Author's Note:**

> This entry is CANON and takes place during chapter three of Blood Noir Bone. JC loves Harry, but is also a very old vampire and can be as ruthless and spiteful as such implies. His relationship with Nathaniel is not safe or sane, and that is the point.
> 
> Big thanks to [Nemi_Thine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemi_Thine/pseuds/Nemi_Thine) who beta'd as my brain was running on fumes.

The leopard's hair was like melted copper, warm and gleaming, testament to the hours of work that went into maintaining it. As ordered five hundred strokes of the brush had replaced vanilla laden conditioner, leaving nothing but the boy's own musk to mingle with the smoke scented air. A neat curtain of ephemeral silk spilled from Nathaniel's head; nearly all he had left to maintain his modesty. Nearly. Broad shoulders that had not filled out into full adulthood hunched inward and hooded, amethyst eyes did not dare to meet burning lapis blue.

Jean-Claude stalked his outstretched kneeling prize with a gaze as cold as his own undead flesh. His hands flexed, anticipatory, and old leather creaked from the pressure. He could admit to himself, in the sanctity of his own mind, that he envied the leopard's mane. No vampire could grow beyond their death, and what was lost after would be so forever. Jean-Claude had worn a mustache, a small one that his vanity had kept groomed and trimmed, before his lady found and raised him. Almost three hundred years ago his Sourdre de Sang suggested Jean-Claude shave and he'd been smooth as a cherub ever since. The leopard was not yet a man and his hairless face bore testament to that, darkened only by the shadows cast by candle light and his own inner demons.

Like a shadow himself, Jean-Claude's steps were silent and measured in boots that drank what dim light the infant flames circling them offered. Gray smoke drifted lightly, teasingly, in the small chamber as an unspoken accusation of his prey. He wound the braided leather of the whip around one hand, letting the handle hang and swing whimsically. Nathaniel's head rose from the gap formed by his reaching arms, expression curious as hungry eyes tracked the movement. The cat's throat worked with the tale-tell bob of the adam's apple, and Jean-Claude's own demon gave an answering purr in his breast. To one as old as the Master of the City every stuttered breath, flushed cheek, anticipatory shiver and batted eyelash was a sordid tome to exploit.

The incubus towered over the younger man and inhaled slowly, savoringly, rolling simple words in his power. Words were all he would allow himself – _tonight_. He touched the aged, thick handle of the whip to Nathaniel's forehead and pressed. The deceptively demur countenance was forced back, forced up, and still he would not match Jean-Claude's gaze. The vampire's newest pet did not need chains or rope or gags. He was trained to listen, and obey. To _submit_. The boy's former nimir-raj had insured the would-be-thief needed no gag, for he had no words to speak.

The lion couchant thought he knew how this game was played: in flesh and blood and pain so exquisite the sudden abeyance edged into searing pleasure.

“You have my attention, mon chat.” Jean-Claude cooed, his voice gentle but weighted with a gravity that pulled lust like a singularity. The boy's breathing hitched, and his pupils momentarily elongated to that of the beast within. Jean-Claude not was not particularly fond of cats. Cat's were the domain of the likes of Belle Morte and la Mère des Ombres. Though common, Jean-Claude preferred his own wolves... but dear Richard would throw a fit if he thought the Master of the City was abusing his people. Even if they had asked for it. “Do you know why?”

Nathaniel's chin twitched, the sign of an aborted denial as Jean-Claude pressed harder, hard enough to leave bruises beneath the skin. But shapeshifters were of hardy stock, and wet lips trembled. Shielding strands of amber slid away from the youthful face as Jean-Claude kept Nathaniel's head tilted back to expose the silver studded collar wrapped around his throat. “I'm s-”

  
“Shhh.” Jean-Claude hushed the leopard and moved back, though like the good boy he was not Nathaniel refrained from allowing his head fall forward. Jean-Claude tossed the whip from hand to hand like one would a ball to tease a dog. “Do not lie to me, mon chat. I will know.”

In the dimly lit room Jean-Claude sighed as if in disappointment and relaxed the reigns to his own hunger. He had not fed from his pomme this night. Shadows twisted, and in the contrast between bloodless skin and cold darkness Jean-Claude's skin seemed to glow with a white, almost holy light. His eyes lit with twin flames as he finally offered the submissive creature something warm in the chilled, barren room. He smiled, and the intangible thing within him reached out through his voice to claim the boy's ardour for their own.

“You wished to steal ma petite, even knowing what she is to me.” Lovely, violet eyes widened as they made contact in surprise, finally, and Jean-Claude devoured them with his own. Nathaniel's pulse was like a small bird in his mouth. The boy was small. Small minded and weak willed, though not small in every aspect. He'd been a favorite of Raina, and she'd had rather large tastes. Jean-Claude cracked the whip in the air beside him, the snap of sound extinguishing a candle as he did so and making the encircling darkness somehow more. “Did you think I would not find out? I? You have my attention, mon chat, and my ire. And yet, as I am a merciful _master_ I will teach you... _better_.”

Nathaniel's cock, restrained in a cage of leather and silver as it was, fought futilely to attain it's full growth. Jean-Claude regarded his new pet with a benevolent smile and swept into his mind on a wave of want and need. There was deeply rooted psychosis in him, started by a poor excuse for a human let alone a father, that had twisted into something stranger. Nathaniel needed other's eyes upon him like plants needed sunlight. It was why he danced at Guilty Pleasures. Why he tried so hard to push himself into Harriet's bed to the exclusion of all others in his pard – for then his protector would be bound to him with the only currency that he'd been taught mattered.

What a sad, lonely little creature he was. Beautiful, yes, but empty without others to validate his existence.

Rather like a flowerpot.

“I see you, Monsieur Graison.” Jean-Claude whispered, now well behind the kneeling wereleopard. Pale cheeks flushed with power as blue eyes blazed. “I see you, and you are _mine_. Say yes, mon chat.”

“...yes.” It came, breathy. Jean-Claude's demon laughed as they ate the desire that wafted off their trembling kitten. The bitterness of drooling pre-seed spiced the air. Despite the lack of blood, mirrored arousal strained Jean-Claude's pants as he raised the whip in his hand, bringing braided leather down on Nathantiel's back so quickly that a fresh stripe of red had opened up before the last could seal itself.

Blood, sex, smoke, and memories, and Jean-Claude fed on it all with sighs of pleasure.

“Non concupisces domum proximi,” Jean-Claude recited, long healed wounds on his his back throbbing in erotic sympathy. “Tui nec desiderabis uxorem eius non servum non ancillam non bovem non asinum nec omnia quae illius sunt.”

The bullwhip was not tipped with silver, though his vest was festooned with ready implements if he so wished, for one did not return borrowed goods _damaged_. His arm rose and fell leaving rivlets of crimson painted a fall forest on the pilgrim's back. He thought of pinning that young and vital body to the floor and digging his tongue between the split skin. He considered what it would be like to hold the little thief and drain him of strength and magic, rutting into him with a cock made strong and erect on the leopard's own life blood, until Jean-Claude's stomach burst from the fullness.

 _Now, now, Paul._ The incubus mentally chastised the ardor, calling the thing to heel as Nathaniel's body shook and a litany of please and yeses puffed off his bite swollen mouth. He wasn't kneeling so prettily anymore, though he had tried valiantly to maintain his composure. Wrists no longer crossed over each other, and beneath the human skin muscles shifted constantly as though he had excess of tendons and ligaments he knew not the purpose of. His engorged penis looked bruised under the rings that held it and kept Jean-Claude's pet from finding completion.

The auburn leopard burned within the vampire's senses and Jean-Claude knew he could keep the boy in this room, in this dark, with no nourishment but the incubus' regard and Nathaniel would not say a word. He would waste away from exhaustion and starvation before he raised a hand against the Master. For a smile, for a kiss, for a whisper of praise the wereleopard would let himself be killed... or would kill, in turn. Useful. Terrifying.

A thought like snapping teeth popped in Jean-Claude's head, wordless but for the sentiment it carried - _Mine!_

Jean-Claude began coiling the whip, watching as skin slowly but surely knit itself back together. By tomorrow night there would be unbroken pale flesh, but for now Nathaniel's back was a panoply of raw meat and nerves. The vampire walked closer, crouched before the bare bloody back, and blew.

Nathaniel rocked forward with a moan as if he was trying to rut into the stones.

Jean-Claude stood, smirking, and walked around the mewling wereleopard to consider his next action. A bowl, perhaps? He would not give the boy the satisfaction of a vampire bite, but something a little closer to the heart? Jean-Claude reached up to finger one of the many small silver blades strewn throughout his vest. His cock rubbed delightfully against the tight leather of his pants when he moved.

An experiment, then? He no longer required blood the same way lesser vampires did, taking energy with his triumvirate as they themselves feasted on lobster in butter, fluffy rolls of rosemary, potato mashed with garlic and milk and salt to make the sweetness... Jean-Claude dropped the whip on the solitary table of the room. He walked back to the sprawled Nathaniel, popping the button of his pants and undoing the zipper as he did so.

Happily, thinking of cream on his tongue and steak in his teeth, of his servant wearing that mad little grin of hers as she devoured every plate put before her Jean-Claude took himself in hand and tickled his balls. He peered at the image of himself reflected in the leopard's tired, hopeful eyes. He pet himself, preening, and with a simple flex of will on the subconscious binding he'd placed in the cat's mind Nathaniel stopped moving. The boy sunk back to the floor, the action causing his back muscles to scream with a pain that Jean-Claude could taste.

If the beast wished to suck Jean-Claude's cock, it was a right he would have to earn. To look upon what he desired, and could not have.

He spat into his hand and wrapped his fingers around his penis. Pale still, bloodless, but simple power filled the gap like icing on a layered cake. His cock, already stirred by the hunger of his demon, flourished in his hand. Jean-Claude pumped himself with the practice of ages, efficient and paced to balance just on the edge of fulfillment as sensitive flesh sung with memories of light and laughter. Through half-lidded eyes he watched the rapid rise and fall of Nathaniel's chest, watched wasted blood clot, and plump lips tremble in endless benediction.

When Jean-Claude spilled his seed he pointedly avoided his audience's face. Instead, Jean-Claude came onto the lengths of shining copper. The smile he wore as he tucked himself away was all teeth, and oh but it had to hurt. But he had Jean-Claude's attention. All of it.

The bond that tied the vampire to his human servant pulsed, and the faint echoes of skin sliding against skin knocked against his shields like a maid bringing room-service. Harriet rarely initiated contact along their metaphysical ties, preferring instead to craft a shield of labyrinthine thoughts and mad memories that Jean-Claude was certain he could have wandered happily for _hours_ until he found Harry herself.

Or, he could have done that if not for the spirit that shared his servant's soul as much as he or Richard did and patrolled the borders of her mind with a near religious territorial possessiveness.

Carefully, so as not to alarm Harriet or her tenants, Jean-Claude relaxed the stranglehold he kept on his side of the bond. Annoyed arousal and the phantom sensation of being laughed at filled his mind. He spoke, and the abandoned cat behind him thrummed with unfulfilled need that brought countering smirk to Jean-Claude's face. “To what do I owe the honor, ma petite?”

He reached out through the marks that made her his in all the ways that _mattered_ , that saw distance as nothing more than a number, and frowned. His Harry was dressed less like she had blundered her way through a brain-addled teenager's closet and more like the queen he knew her to be, but he did not recognize her surroundings. He certainly did not know all cemeteries and morgues his little wizard frequented, but there was a certain sense of longing ache in his bones that only left when his bonded were by his side and grew worse they further away they flew. “Where are you, it is not within my domains, I do not think...”

If she was hunting vampires in another Master's territory, the political repercussions could be... significant.

He left the room with the cat who was not yet a man, abandoned and untouched and yearning, and smiled at his Harry's answer.

A bizarre thought drifted through Jean-Claude's mind as he wheedled a future date out of his Servant: _Did I refer to the Ardor as 'Paul'?_


	2. Quick Sketch: Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dusted off my drawing supplies and holy heck, I am out of practice. So glad I used pencil. Harry's nose and coat were drawn and redrawn sooo many times. Borrowed the pose from AB:VH Comic Book Cover 1. The proportions on her hand is a little off, I think, but the gun is supposed to be stupidly large for her. Modeled after the Colt Walker, and that thing was the largest revolver ever made.
> 
> And gum, of course, because as was drawing Harry's smirk I realized she totally needed to be blowing a bubblegum bubble while intimidating the bad guys.


End file.
